Heart Duel

by Robin D. Owens

  Lark blinked. “That’s odd, I just noticed, though it happened yesterday, too. I can understand your kitten—”

  Fam, Meserv corrected, tongue lolling as he panted.

  “—perfectly.” She frowned. “Phyll must be closely linked to his brother, and I, being linked to him, get an echo effect—yet, it didn’t sound—”

  “You must be right,” Holm said. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “It might be additional Flair in this new generation of cats. Danith D’Ash has set up a screening and breeding program to enhance various characteristics.”

  “Ah,” said Lark, distracted as both kittens shot between her legs after the ball.

  As the septhour wore on, the playing evolved into a game of “keep away” with Lark and the kittens against Holm.

  Lark shook her head as she realized it. Three competitive males. Of course, what else had she expected?

  A complex bond spun between them all at various levels. She had a hard time masking her thoughts from Holm as she and the kittens devised a strategy. At a nod from her, Phyll and Meserv executed their plan.

  Meserv teleported to cling to Holm’s sleeve while Phyll nipped at Holm’s bare ankles. He gasped with laughter. While he was diverted, Lark ran to him, hooked her foot around his other ankle, and brought him down. He even fell gracefully. He appeared completely shocked that she’d do such a thing, she noticed smugly.

  The kittens pounced on him. We won. We won! WE WON!! they screamed with delight. Meserv collapsed atop Holm, closing his eyes. Phyll followed the puffball, caught by a wayward breeze, down the beach.

  Holm lay there, looking outrageously male. The sight of him stopped her laughter and made her heart lurch. His body was perfect: the broad line of his shoulders, emphasized by his white shirt against the deep red sand. Then the masculine line narrowing down to lean hips; solid thighs outlined by his breeches; and his naked, sturdy calves and feet. The sun turned his hair to silver, and the rest of his skin looked golden tan from the long summer days.

  She just stood, relishing the sight of him. This sought-after man wanted her. The gleaming humor in his eyes had changed into dark hunger as her perusal lingered.

  His shoulders shifted as if he was about to rise, and Lark whispered, “Don’t.” She was a meter and a half away, and he couldn’t have heard her, but he must have seen her lips form the word, because he subsided. More, he flung out his arms in open invitation for her to study him as much as she wanted. And she didn’t know if the thundering in her ears was the rushing of her blood or the pounding waves against the shore.

  Sprawled, arms wide, he should have looked vulnerable, but didn’t.

  The moment spun between them. Lark became aware that a sea breeze had risen and shaped her clothes against her. His gaze lingered on her full breasts, dropped to study her equally full hips. Sexual desire licked her insides with small flames.

  He wanted her. There was no doubt of that. For the first time in her life she allowed herself to stare at a man’s groin. From the lowering of his lashes, the flush creeping beneath his skin, he liked the way she looked at him, how her own body obviously reacted to his arousal.

  Holm was so incredible. And he wanted her. This powerful, wealthy, highly Flaired Heir to a GreatHouse wanted her.

  Memories of seeing him at other times, reflecting his sophistication and rank, paraded before her. As a striking youth, the right hand of his father T’Holly, active in FirstFamilies Rituals, Holm’s Flair had been strong and true. As a man, laughing with a group of male friends, he’d looked more virile than them all. Once, kissing a woman’s hand, his easy and elegant moves had told of his attraction to and affection for women. She thought of yesterday, Holm lounging on her red sofa, before and after they’d almost made love, outwardly casual, yet with smoldering emotions pouring from his eyes.

  The most engaging image of all was the laughing, gentle man playing with kittens, but it was his affection when he’d first held her that had opened her heart to him.

  Now he lay before her, desire evident, waiting with dilated eyes, watching her.

  She knew he wanted her and reminded herself that she didn’t want a husband. That she’d worked hard to apply for the head of Gael City HealingHall. That if she got the post, she would leave everything behind.

  As for Holm, since his death-duel Passages foretold no HeartMate for him, he’d look for a woman less committed to her career than she for a wife, a woman entrenched in her Family. He’d seek a FirstFamilies Lady who’d bring good connections and a favorable alliance to GreatHouse T’Holly.

  Holm lifted his hand to stroke Meserv, who had promptly fallen asleep as soon as he’d climbed on Holm’s chest.

  Phyll was out of sight. She tested her telepathic bond with him and found him down the beach, stalking a wayward branch-let of dried twigs.

  Her gaze went back to Holm’s hands. Large and strong. Calloused and warm. Gentle and exciting.

  The long minutes bred uneasiness as she sensed his demand for more than she wished to give. Trying to find words to end this interlude, she opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t.

  His stare captured hers and the link between them doubled and redoubled, spinning from a thread to a braided band. Physical—the sparkling energy that circled between them, laced with undercurrents of passion. Emotional—she felt his desire, not only sexual, but the echo of something deeper, something even more insistent that could sway and command her own emotions. Danger, there. Mental—his mind nudged hers, asking for a clear telepathic connection.

  The day had taught her to trust, to risk. She opened to him.

  Look at me, he said, his mental voice dark and rich. You like looking at me, don’t you?

  Yes, she replied in the equivalent of a mere whisper.

  His lips curved. Again he lazily surveyed her. His hips shifted restlessly, and again her eyes were drawn to the front of his straining breeches. A warm, damp tremor rippled through her.

  I like looking at you, Bélla, seeing your excitement. I like feeling you near. I like speaking to you intimately. Gently he lifted Meserv and placed him in a nearby hollow of sand. The kitten grunted, curled tighter into a ball, and slept.

  Come to me, Holm said. The words were spoken with lazy power, with the full intention that she would do as he bid, laced with sexual promise.

  It was a public beach. She looked around. They were quite alone. She touched her mind to Phyll’s. He sensed no one else, either. She looked at Holm.

  He smiled and raised a hand, palm up, fingers cupped in expectation.

  She dug her toes into the sand. She stiffened her knees. She wasn’t ready.

  He grinned. He’d heard her thought and he grinned. One of the continuing pulses of desire inside her turned into pique.

  I’m ready. His brilliant silver-gray eyes were lost to her as he looked down his own body. Give me a chance, darling, and I’ll make you ready for me. Quickly.

  She hesitated.

  Come to me, he said, and now there was additional will behind his words, a mesmerizing call from his mind to hers. She shook it off.

  He frowned, sent a burst of energy to her that flamed up her nerves, so odd and male and vital. She jumped.

  Feel what we have between us. The circuit between them sizzled with cycling energy.

  She found herself panting, caught her breath. She’d never handled this sort of Flair before, the powerful Flair of a virile man who wasn’t a Healer. She should have fallen from the force of the link, cringed hurting into a fetal ball, hated it. It flowed through her, invigorating her, and as it swept through her and back to him, it changed. She saw his eyes widen as the power came back to him, transformed, female and—

  Passionate, he completed her thought. Female and passionate and delightful. The energy is complementary to mine! You suit me like the Lady suits the Lord.

  Instead of stepping forward, she stepped back, and broke the link. Coldness enveloped her. His words were true, and frightening. So she took an
other pace back.

  Holm’s hand flopped back on the sand as if in frustration or despair. No, it could not be despair, just male disappointment.

  She tried to make her tones light as she put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows. “Did you think I’d jump on you like a woman wild with passion?”

  He opened his eyes and they were still the dangerous, hungry silver signaling desire. “I could only hope. You showed great promise when you marked me.” He touched the bruise on his neck.

  Warmth flowed through her. “I, I—”

  Holm held up a hand to stop her, then easily rocked to his feet, reminding her he was a fighter, and of all the differences between them.

  She shut up and stepped back.

  “Don’t,” Holm said. “Don’t ever run from me. Do you think I could ever hurt you? ”

  Lark blinked at his emphatic tone and shook her head, as much to try to clear her mind as to instinctively deny that he would ever harm her, at least physically.

  “Good. We Hollys cherish women.”

  She licked her lips. “Yes, everyone knows that.” Lark stiffened her spine. “I will not let you fog my mind again.”

  His lips twisted in an ironic smile. “Easier said than done, I’d imagine.”

  Screeching hit her mind and ears at the same time. Phyll shot toward them, a small orange blur.

  Meserv woke, bolted toward his brother, then was firmly fixed on Holm’s shoulder, ’ported by him.

  Lark began to run to her kitten, heart pounding.

  “Stop!” ordered Holm.

  She couldn’t. Something in the waves matched Phyll’s speed. A white sinewy tentacle whipped out close to the kitten.

  Lark teleported her Fam to her chest. Phyll hooked all his claws into her tunic. She winced at the sharp pain, started running backward up the beach.

  A huge beast rose from the waves, gathering substance and bulk as it towered over them. Breath squeezed from Lark as Holm ’ported her to the seagrass dunes. A spitting Meserv joined her.

  Gasping, Lark watched as Holm drew his sword and challenged the advancing creature, attracting its attention. Mottled white and brown, the monster looked like a cross between a lizard and a toad—warty, with six eyes. Lark panted, trying to think.

  Holm scanned the beach, saw it was deserted near a rocky outcropping to the north. He ran to the empty area, whipping mind probes at the monster. No effect, but it followed him. The thing hulked over him. Holm concentrated on swiping at three darting tentacles. Greasy ichor spurted, then melted into the sand. He scrambled to the top of a rock and screamed a war cry. One flick of his fingers brought the blaser in his glider slapping solidly into his hands. He fired.

  The bloblike thing took the hit, hesitated, stretched into misshapen grotesqueness. Holm’s breath caught in his chest. Something was wrong. Instead of reacting, instinctively fighting, he began to think.

  Nothing on Celta had six eyes. “Stop!” cried Lark, jogging to Holm, the kittens clinging to her.

  He scowled at a small figure beyond her—a boy. He swore. A Word sent his blaser back to the glider. He sheathed his sword, jumped from the rock, set his jaw, and marched back down the beach.

  Lark met him, panting out words. “Six eyes. No entity—Celtan, Earthling, or hybrid has six eyes!”

  He jerked a nod but continued past her to confront the maker of the illusion, the young GreatLord Vinni T’Vine.

  “Just what do you think you are doing?” Holm thought himself a model of control given the fact he wanted to rage at the boy for interrupting Holm’s sweet moments with his Bélla. With a sinking heart, he knew his plan to be gentlemanly and non-threatening had gone up like the stream of illusory smoke from the nostrils of the fake beast.

  The boy paled, but stood his ground. “I was just having a little fun.”

  “Were you?” Holm smiled with all his teeth.

  Vinni dug the toe of his boot into the sand. His mouth turned mulish. “Well, maybe my Flair got a little out of hand.” Gazing up at Holm, Vinni’s eyes took on an amber hue as if wiser than his years. “We all prefer to show ourselves at our best, spinning illusions.”

  Holm winced inwardly at the accurate hit.

  Lark and the kittens joined them. Meserv sniffed and began grooming granules of dark red sand from his orange fur. Phyll stalked around Vinni, snuffling loudly. Tension radiated from her. Holm ground his teeth; he’d have some explaining to do.

  With an awkward bob, Vinni bowed to Lark. “FirstLevel Healer, I wanted to ask about Avellana Hazel. Nobody tells me anything.”

  She nodded. “Avellana was released from PrimaryHealing Hall this morning. She’s as well as can be expected.”

  Vinni chewed his lip. “I’d like a copy of her records.”

  Lark stared at him. Holm sensed her muscles relaxing as she concentrated on her work, her mind settling into even rhythms.

  Vinni drew himself up and threw out his chest. “As a GreatLord, I can make one request for medical records of an allied House—”

  “I’ll ’port a copy to your Residence,” she said.

  Vinni’s eyelids half-closed over green-gold eyes. He sucked in a breath. “Can you send it to my sitting room in the T’Vine MasterSuite instead?”

  “Yes.”

  Phyll jumped to Vinni’s shoulder and nipped his ear. The boy winced and patted the kitten. “Sorry for scaring you.”

  Phyll hissed. Vinni rubbed Phyll’s head, but met Holm’s gaze. “A feeling sent me here.”

  Holm liked this less and less.

  “There are many facets to each of us. All should be treasured,” Vinni said to Holm. Then the young GreatLord turned to Lark. “And you must remember that he was defending his loved ones. That he was putting his body between you and danger. That he’d give his life in defense of another.”

  Lark gasped. She hadn’t viewed it from that perspective.

  Vinni detached Phyll from his shoulder and put him on the beach. “Merry meet,” Vinni said.

  “Merry part,” Holm and Lark said together.

  “And merry meet again.” He vanished with a pop. Holm wondered if the lordling had the Flair and energy to teleport the long way back to Druida, was ’porting in stages, or had a glider.

  Lark frowned. “He’s back at T’Vine Residence.”

  Holm scooped up Phyll and arranged him around his lady’s neck. “How do you know?”

  She shrugged. “He was the first child I ever delivered. I have a small connection with him. A link develops sometimes. I have one with Avellana Hazel, too, since I worked so long on repairing her brain.”

  He didn’t want to hear that, but he didn’t want the conversation to veer into argument, either. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, drawing her gaze to his. As he kissed her palm, he matched his breathing to hers, reached for the cycling of her energy, and steadied it to duplicate his—to spin and pulse between them.

  She withdrew her hand. “Thank you for the outing, HollyHeir—”

  “Holm!”

  “—but a personal relationship between us will never work.”

  “Of course it will.”

  She ground her teeth. “We are too far apart, in ideals, in reactions, in hopes. It’s not only the feud between our Families that separates us, or that I may be leaving soon, but our very natures. Your first instinct is to fight. Mine is to Heal.” She spread her hands. “How can we possibly overcome that?”

  “Our first instincts are to protect.”

  She scowled.

  “Lark, what are you doing with him?” A woman’s accusatory voice had Lark stiffening.

  A tall, angular woman approached.

  Eight

  “I thought you’d be here after work, Lark, and wanted to talk,” the woman said.

  “Hello, Painted Rock.” Lark greeted her former sister-in-law. “This is—”

  “I know who he is, a noble.” Her lip curled. “A noble fighter. Holm Holly. HollyHeir. A noble fighter specializing in kill
ing other nobles.”

  “I never killed another noble,” Holm said. He bowed to Painted Rock. It didn’t remove her sneer.

  “This is Painted Rock, Ethyn’s sister,” Lark said.

  “Ah. That explains the hostility.” He offered his hand, then dropped it. “A most gifted Family, Ethyn a FirstLevel Healer, and you a fine artist. I admire your work.”

  Her face mottled. “I don’t admire yours. If you work.”

  “Painted—” Lark began.

  Holm stopped her with a gesture. “I work. Family business.”

  “Feuding,” Painted Rock spat.

  “Not our choice,” Holm said.

  “No? You fight. You own a salon to teach others. Maybe you haven’t killed other nobles. Maybe you only kill those you don’t think are as fine as you. You had death-duel Passages Downwind, didn’t you? Killed Downwinders?”

  Holm’s jaw clenched. “I never started a fight Downwind.”

  “Never?” Lark blurted.

  Blazing silver lit Holm’s eyes. “Never. I don’t lie.” Turning back to Painted Rock, he said, “Yes, during my Passages, Downwind’s brutality called to me and I didn’t gainsay my emotions. I let them carry me to Downwind. I suppose you never did anything you regretted during your Passages.”

  Painted Rock flung up her chin. “Your brother, Tinne, wiped out a gang Downwind just a couple of years ago, didn’t he?”

  “He was attacked, too.”

  “Oh, poor nobles slumming Downwind, forced to fight.”

  “That’s enough, Painted Rock!” Lark said.

  Painted Rock turned, and Lark was surprised to see the tears in her sister-in-law’s eyes. “You betrayed us.” Painted Rock’s lips quivered. “You’re one of them again. I told Ethyn not to marry you, but he did. I came to like you. I thought you were different from most nobles. I thought you cared about others. I thought you cared about him and me. You don’t. Oh, maybe you hurt after he died. But now you’re with him.” She pointed at Holm. “You don’t care that he kills. You’ll just Heal him and let him go on his way. You don’t stop to think that you’re opposites. He kills, you Heal.” She sucked in a breath and turned her back on them, walking hunched-shouldered away.